


Tended to with Tea

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Series: Johnlock Trope Challenge [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Challenge Response, Domestic Bliss, Doubt, Johnlock Trope Challenge, M/M, One Shot, POV John, Sherlock Cares, Sherlock's Violin, Sweet, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 06:53:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1809316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is having a difficult day, but thinks Sherlock doesn't care. He's wrong.</p>
<p>For Day 17 of the Johnlock Trope Challenge: Serenade</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tended to with Tea

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note that this is a series of one-shots for a challenge and these stories will be wildly different in style and tone as I try out some new things. They aren't meant to connect to each other in any way. There's a 48-hour window to write and submit these, so results may vary!

It was raining and it had been a hard day at the clinic, putting John in a dark mood. For some reason, each patient he had seen reflected one of the more miserable aspects of the human condition. Poverty. Abuse. Pain. Hopelessness. Not one easy case all day. All of that, combined with a steady diet of crime and murder in the other half of his life, was wearing on him.

He was typically able to maintain a professional distance, but today… blame it on the grey sky or the chill in the air, but he was finding that separation difficult, the stories chipping away at his already weak faith in humanity.

During a quick afternoon break, uncharacteristically craving a cigarette, he had texted Sherlock, needing to tell someone.

      _I’m having a bad day._

Sherlock didn’t reply, which shouldn’t have surprised him. He wasn't likely to sympathize with such notions. Nonetheless, John was disappointed, rebuffed, found himself gripping his silent phone and wishing Sherlock would be different... He should just accept that Sherlock was not going to change.

John now unlocked the door at Baker Street, propped his black umbrella in the corner, shook the rain off his coat, hung it over the bannister. His shoes were soaked, it was raining so hard. He sighed, sat down on the bottom step, undid the laces, slipped off his shoes and socks, placed them near the wall to dry. He continued to sit, bracing his elbows on his knees, weighed down by his thoughts.

As he sat, he heard the first notes of violin music float down the stairwell. So, Sherlock was home.

John listened, sitting in the gathering dark, glad for the solitude but welcoming the unobtrusive company of the music. He wasn’t sure if he recognized the piece - he didn’t know Bach from Beethoven - but it was lovely. He closed his eyes, letting his mind go empty.

After several more minutes, he stood, climbed the stairs, pushed open the door to the warm light and Sherlock’s back silhouletted against the window, the violin crooked under his chin, long fingers moving by memory across the strings. John lingered in the doorway, watching, his keys held silently in his hand.

Sherlock finished, stood still for a moment, his posture impeccable, then turned to face John. “Kettle’s on,” he said, pointing with his bow to a perfectly laid tray awaiting the tea pot. “Should be just a moment.”

John stared dumbly at the table, trying to remember the last time Sherlock had made tea. Sherlock put the violin away, then went to the kitchen. “Sit,” he said to John.

John did as directed, listening to the faint clinks and clatters behind him, looking up when Sherlock placed the tray on the side table next to his chair. He watched as Sherlock poured the tea, his movements precise but with the slightest addition of unnecessary flair. John took the cup and saucer presented to him, breathed in the warm bergamot scent.

Sherlock sat in his chair, settled back, the china cup tiny in his large hand. Somehow he still made it look elegant.

John took a sip, glanced down at the rising steam, then was struck with a sudden realization. He slowly smiled to himself. Sherlock _had_ read his text and responded: he'd just been serenaded and tended to with tea.

John’s shoulders relaxed and he eased back in his chair, his bare feet warm against the rug. He couldn’t help but smile now at Sherlock, his faith restored.


End file.
